The Little Pearl – Chapter One

Flossie Pearl Davis was born on a chilly St. Patrick’s Day, in 1960.  From that day forward, she would be known as “The Little Pearl.”

She was a late in life child for Leona and Norman Davis.  They had prayed for a child since they married in 1938, and she immediately became the light of their lives.

Her name was a throwback to the past, but everyone knew that she was far ahead of her time.  She was by no means as polished as her name would suggest, nor would she likely ever be, but what she lacked in shine was replaced with an abundance of pluck.

From the time she first learned to walk, The Little Pearl was a performer.  A pillowcase pinned to the shoulders of her shirt, served as a cape worn by a common superhero, or a queen’s crimson velvet mantle.  While pretending to be royalty, a paper cigar band imitated a ring, which she would command her subjects to kiss.

Each performance garnered praise from Leona and Norman, who never failed to tell Little Pearl how very special she was.  When they asked what she was going to be when she grew up, she would smile and say, “One day, I’m going to be famous.”  When they asked what she was going to be famous for, she said, “I don’t know.  I just know that one day, I’m going to be famous.”

In school, Little Pearl impressed the teachers with her steadfast desire to be noticed.  If plays or talent shows were on the horizon, she was the first to volunteer her skill-sets.

She didn’t know how to dance, but that didn’t stop her from getting on stage, and tripping the light fantastic with every ounce of talent she didn’t have.

Caterwauling might best describe her singing, and even though it fostered a few snickers from other children, the audience gave her thundering applause.

When Pearl told her parents that she wanted to learn to play the piano, they sent her to the uptown studio for lessons.   She had it in mind to perform a recital at the next talent show, even though it was less than a month away.

The night of the show, she walked up to the stage, bowed, and then and sat down in front of the grand piano.  The number of missed notes far outweighed the correct ones, and despite completely massacring a song, her efforts were praised.

Norman and Leona beamed with pride as they watched.  They were never going to see defeat in her eyes, and she was never going to see disappointment in theirs.

In high school, the teacher gave the class an assignment.  “You will perform your favorite part of a famous play.  It doesn’t matter which play you choose, as long as it’s famous.”  That word resonated with Pearl. More than once, the teacher had heard her say, “One day, I’m going to be famous.”

Little Pearl knew right away which play she was going to perform, and couldn’t wait for her turn to stand in front of the class to give her rendition of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

No one had ever butchered Shakespeare quite like Little Pearl.  Her soliloquy of “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” got off to a good start with those first five words, but what followed left the teacher wondering if she had read the right play.  Still, her enthusiasm and audacious performance captured the teacher’ heart.  “Not everyone can memorize that well,” she thought.

A year later, Pearl came home and Leona notice that she seemed to have lost a bit of her spark.  “What’s wrong, child?” she asked.

Pearl looked at her and said, “I don’t look like the other girls.”

 

To be continued_____________

 

 

 

The Dating Game – Redux – Part Two

And so it continues.

Man:  “Hi.”  (No picture.)
Me:  No response.
Man:  “Hi.”
Me:  No response.
Man:  “Hi.  I will like to know you.”
Me:  “I don’t have conversations with men who don’t display a picture.”
Man:  “I will happy to send to you multiples sexy picture.  I can have you cell phone number please.”
Me:  “First. Learn how to use proper grammar.  Second.  Are we talking pornography?  If so, send those puppies on over!  Do you mind if I post them on Social Media or Craigslist so we can all point and laugh?”

Man:  “I read your profile and you sound like the perfect woman for me.  I think we share many interests.”
Me:  “I think being in New Jersey, you might be a bit too far away, but thank you for the message.”
Man:  “I would move for you.  Just say the word.”
Me:  “Okay.  Move…on.”

Man:  “Hello gorgeous.”
Me:  “Yeah, I’m all kinds of gorgeous.  What’s on your mind?”
Man:  “I love to cuddle, hug, kiss, and wake up next to a beautiful woman.”
Me:  “That’s great.  I’m only interested in friendship.”
Man:  “We can do friendship, and see where it goes.  A woman like you doesn’t need to be alone.  A woman like you needs a strong, caring, loving man to hold her and make her feel safe.”
Me:  “Silly boy.  The only thing I need to make me feel safe is named Smith & Wesson, and it’s loaded with hollow point bullets.  Now tell me.  How safe do you feel?”

Man:  “I like your profile.  You sound like a woman who knows what she wants.”
Me:  “Thank you for the message, but your profile says that you are looking for a long-term relationship.  I am only interested in friendship.”
Man:  “Does that include benefits?”
Me:  “No.”
Man:  “Are you sure?”
Me:  “Yes.”
Man:  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Me:  “For crying out loud!  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  Men who brag about their sexual prowess are more than likely trying to compensate for their ‘shortcomings’.  Give me a fucking break.”

Man:  “I’m going to be in town tonight.  Want to get together for a drink? I could be a serial killer for all you know, but I’m really a nice guy.”
Me:  “Umm…hmm…what an interesting way to introduce yourself.  Let me think about this for a minute.  Okay.  I’ve thought about it. Drinking with a possible serial killer.  Sounds good to me, but there’s one condition.  First, I have to tell you about all the men I’ve already had a drink with.  Most of their body parts are buried in my back yard. Think we’d get along?”

Man:  “I think your beautiful.  Check out my profile and see what you think.” (Picture shows him from neck down.)
Me:  “I think you need to learn about contractions, and honestly, I prefer men who have…a head…with some eyes…a nose…and maybe a mouth.”
Man:  “I can send some more pictures.  Oh, and my age is wrong, but I can’t go back and fix it.  Send me your cell phone number.”
Me:  “I don’t give out my phone number, and how old are  you?”
Man:  “Okay.  How about your email address?”
Me:  “I don’t give out my email address either.”
Man:  “I don’t feel like we can talk freely on here, and theirs a lot I want to say to you.”
Me:  “Allow me to speak freely.  How old are you?”
Man:  “I’m seventy-eight years young and fully functional.  I could service you real good.”
Me:  “I suggest that you introduce your fully functional whatever to your favorite hand and service yourself…’real good’.”

And so it goes.

  

 

 

The Dating Game – Redux

I decided to do the dating thing again, for two reasons.  (1) To see if the same old dregs were still sitting around in the bottom of the barrel, and (2) to have something hilarious to write about.

Man:  “Please view my profile to see if you are interested.”
Me:  “Okay.  I viewed your profile and I am quite taken with your bare chest, and the rather large dog, licking your nipples.  Check back with me later, when I lose my eyesight.” 

Man:  “My likes are hopping into my eighteen wheeler and driving cross-country.  I’m looking for a woman to marry.”
Me:  “Keep looking.”

Man:  “Would you like to wrestle?”
Me:  “Did someone switch my picture with Ronda Rousey?  I suggest you give her a call.”

Man:  “I know your profile says that you are only interested in friendship, and that’s okay, but does it include benefits?”
Me:  “Do you expect benefits from all of your friends?  If so, call one of them.”

Man:  “You are stunning.  It says you are only interested in friendship, but don’t you think that all relationships are built on friendship?”
Me:  “Possibly, if you are looking for a relationship, but I’m not.”
Man:  “You never know.  We could be sitting on a bench and you could suddenly think, ‘this is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with’.”
Me:  “No.  That’s not going to happen.  I am not looking for a relationship.”
Man:  “But how do you know?  We’re all looking for love and companionship.  Here’s my phone number.  Will you give my yours?  I think if we could talk, I could change your mind.”
Me:  “I don’t give out my phone number.  Why do you want to change my mind?  Is there something wrong with the one I have?  And, like I have repeatedly said, I am not looking for a relationship.”
Man:  “Okay,  I’ll settle for a date, and I’ll just hope that I can persuade you to feel differently.”
Me:  “There will be no date, and I already feel differently.  You don’t seem to be able to take no for an answer.”

Man:  “You are really pretty.  I’m only 5′ 4″ but I consider myself to be a big man.  There are a lot of things that can compensate for being short, and I can show you.”
Me:  “How many times do I have to tell you guys that I am not interested in having to pick up my date to kiss him good night?  And…I’ve already seen a cocktail weenie.”

Man:  “I am a simple man.  I admit that I need Viagra to get my libido going.  I think we have a lot in common.  I love to take strolls on the beach, and go to antique stores, although I don’t have much money.”
Me:  “Well…you won’t be needing that Viagra for me.  I’m not sure whose profile your read, but it surely wasn’t mine.  What part did you miss about friendship only, and my utter distaste for the beach? Money isn’t important.  No, wait.  Money is important.”

Man:  “I saw your profile and I just had to send you a message.  I am looking for the last love of my life.  I love the rodeo, fishing, taking my RV out, camping, karaoke at my favorite bar, and riding my Harley.  I think we have a lot in common.  Let me know what you think.”
Me:  I think you must not be able to read.  I am not looking for a relationship.  I have absolutely no interest in the rodeo, fishing, camping, karaoke bars, riding motorcycles, or tripping in an RV.  I’ll offer the same advice as to bachelor #2.  Keep looking.”     

Man:  “I love being out in nature.  Hunting my own food and cooking it. Peeing in the woods.  Laying on a blanket, staring at the moon.  Just roughing it.  A nice cold beer, with my main woman would be Heaven.”
Me:  “Umm…that’s not really my milieu, and certainly not my idea of Heaven.  Judging by your pictures, I wonder if your mother and father were actually sister and brother.”

That’s all folks.

 

 

Fun With Lupita And Juan

For the past several weeks, I have been bombarded with calls from (que dunt dunt dunt tones when something sinister is afoot ) the IRS.

OKAY, LET’S PLAY.

Caller:  “You will be taken under custody by the local cops and put into handcuffs.  There are four serious allegations pressed on your name at this moment.  We would request you to get back to us so that we can discuss about this case, before taking legal action against you.  The number to reach is 206-317-1670,  I repeat, the number to reach is 206-317-1670.  Thank you.”

Me:  Dialing number.

Caller:  “Internal Revenue Service, this is Lupita.  How can I help you?”

Me:  You just called and left a message.

Lupita:  When did we call?”

Me:  Just a few seconds ago.

Lupita:  “Yes.  ********, there are several warrants out for your arrest for not paying your income taxes.”  (Knew my real name.)

Me:  You’re with the Internal Revenue Service?

Lupita:  “Yes, I am.”

Me:  Really?  That’s funny, because I work for the IRS, and this is not one of our numbers.

Lupita:  Click.

Me:  Dialing number again.

Caller:  “Internal Revenue Service, this is Lupita.  How can I help you?”

Me:  Hi, Lupita.  It’s me again. 

Lupita:  Click.

Me:  Dialing number again.

Caller:  “Internal Revenue Service, this is Lupita.  How can I help you?”

Me:  Now, Lupita.  How are you going to scam people if you keep hanging up on them?

Lupita:  “WILL YOU PLEASE STOP CALLING ME?”

Me:  But I want to chat.

Lupita:  Click.

Me:  Dialing number again.

Caller:  “Internal Revenue Service.  This is Juan.  How are you today *******?” (Knew my real name, too.)

Me:  Hi Juan.  What happened to Lupita?

Juan: “Tell me, ********.  When was the last time you had sex?”

Me:  Well, I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me.  When was the last time YOU had sex?

Juan:  “Oh, unfortunately, it’s been quite a while.”

Me:  Oh,  I’m sorry.  Tiny little dick?

Juan:  Click

 

How rude!  Hanging up on me like that!  And they stopped answering the phone!  Go figure.

Tombstones

I love to wander though old cemeteries and look at tombstones…or headstones…or markers.  Whatever you call them, they’re supposed to be a tactile testament to someone who was once here.

I know there are people who regularly visit these cold stone monoliths on the anniversary of the departed one’s birthday, or death day if they so choose, or if they’re close enough.

What if these people live in another state, hours away?  Will they make the yearly trek to stand in pensive silence while looking at a plot of land that holds the remains of a once living person?  Will they require their children to make that trek, and expect them to pretend to be sad about a person that they never even knew?

I’ve seen elaborate headstones, complete with the names, dates of birth and dates of death of the occupants laying in front of them.  There are angels carved into the shiny facade and more often than not, empty urns adorn each side.

Will these people be remembered and revered more than the people who rest at the bottom of the hill, called the cheap seats, which are now disintegrating from the ravages of time?

I have never made a secret of the fact that I find markers irrelevant.

There is a rather large tombstone bearing my family name.  It’s not what I would call elaborate, but it is the first thing you see when you travel up the winding, neglected dirt road leading into the cemetery that can’t even be found on most maps.

Another irony is that of those six burial plots, only one body actually occupies a space.  My youngest brother is resting there, although you would never know.  He had a simple marble plaque, bearing only his first name, the year of his birth and the year of his death.  Someone stole his little marker.

My mama is dead, but she is not buried there.  I’m still toting her around in the trunk of my car.

My middle brother is dead, but he is not buried there.

My daddy is dead, but he is not buried there.

There was once a bronze plaque given to my daddy by the government, in appreciation for his service in the armed forces.  Someone took it, I imagine to sell for scrap metal.  The Veterans Administration was gracious to send another one, this time in marble.  Maybe it’s still there.

Unless I decide to have a marker made for mama and both of my brothers, they will remain nameless to future generations.  All of them are already lost to my children’s generation.  My children knew about my younger brother, but they never knew my middle brother, and barely remember my mama and daddy.  They will never visit the cemetery.

Their children will know nothing about them, other than what their parents might remember, and choose to tell them.

I will be lost after my children’s generation.  My grandchildren may hear my name mentioned, but they will not know me or remember me.

There’s not much of a family history on my side.  All links come to an abrupt halt with both maternal and paternal great-grandfathers, after four short generations.

My mama never knew her daddy, and although she knew his name, I have never been able to find any record of him.  It’s almost as though he was just a figment of someone’s imagination, but of course, mama had to get here somehow.

My daddy’s mama never knew her father.  She had a picture of him hanging in her house, and once I heard her say to my grandfather, “I dreamed I saw my daddy last night.”

I remember the picture.  It was the usual style for that time.  Oval frame, bubble glass and a non-smiling photo of a man she nor I had ever known.

I never saw pictures of my grandparents when they were young.  I remember one picture of my grandfather when he looked to be maybe in his late forties.  He was holding a large stone over his head with one hand.  Someone, probably my grandmother, had written “50 lbs.” on it.

My children never knew them.  They will never know what wonderful, caring people they were.  They will never know how proud my grandmother was when I told her that one of my children was named after my daddy, who bore his daddy’s name.  My children will never visit their graves.

I have a picture of granny (mama’s mama) when she was young.  I have tried to see mama in it, but I’ve never really been able to.  I can see my aunt and uncles, but not mama.  Granny was pretty, with that dark hair and those dark eyes, but her eyes looked harsh like mama’s, even though mama’s eyes were ice blue.

Mama showed me a picture of granny when she was in her fifties.  She had perfectly straight, snow white teeth that looked like dentures, but they were her own.

Granny has a marker.  She rests not far from my little brother, and I know the Bible that she read religiously, every single day, is resting with her.  There are two angel figurines on her tombstone that I’m sure were put there by mama.  As far as I know, her grave is never visited, except by me.  My children will never visit her grave.

One of her sons, mama’s half-brother is there, but I have never been able to find his grave.  Nobody visits his grave, I’m sure.

My children do however, visit their paternal grandfather and great-grandparents’ graves.  Two of them have said that they want to be buried with their daddy, in the “family” cemetery.  I guess that makes sense.  After all, they are his children.